


The Space Between

by nellii



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, One-Sided Relationship, Short & Sweet, Sort Of, but only bc they cuddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25923721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellii/pseuds/nellii
Summary: A one-shot based on art by beeruler on Tumblr, and a look into Jaskier's mind.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	The Space Between

**Author's Note:**

> based on this lovely art  
> https://beeruler.tumblr.com/post/626545850802487296/what-separates-us

Jaskier was always very careful of just how much he  _ touched _ . And it wasn’t because he thought Geralt to be fragile or breakable, that just a single kiss or passing brush of fingers together would break him. If anything, Geralt would be the one to break Jaskier.

In these strange moments of thought, the bard had flashes of a vision. A premonition? A flash-sideways into a world that could have been? A split off of this timeline of theirs, a cold and dark alternative to the love that bloomed between the Witcher and the bard after meeting one another in Posada. 

He saw a mountain.

It was tall, storm clouds circling the summit and raining down streaks of lightning and dashes of rain. Jaskier saw the very top, the peak at which three figures stood. Himself and Geralt among them.

He hated it. 

When they lay close at night, back to chest sharing whisperings of good-night and sweet dreams, blessings to see one the next day happy and well rested, Jaskier allowed himself to touch. He allowed himself to hold his darling, pull him close and feel his warmth but not too much. Not once did his lips grace that space between his shoulder blades that he so longed to press a thousand kisses upon. When light faded and the candles blew out, when Jaskier let his years catch up to him and tire him out beyond reason. He only touched enough that when the inevitable came, when that looming mountain caught up to them, it wouldn’t hurt so much as having one’s heart torn out.

He feared it would only hurt him more to deny himself.

And yet he didn’t dare, leaving only space between, and the warm of his breath on untouched skin. 

The mountain flashed in his mind-  _ afraid afraid afraid hurt hurt hurt _ \- and Jaskier tore away from Geralt, sitting up in bed and tossing off their bed sheets as if they were on fire. Geralt was up in an instant as well, moving to grab onto Jaskier, to protect him from danger or look him over- but the bard moved adamantly away from his grasp. 

“Don’t,” he begged softly.  _ Don’t touch, it hurts me so deeply _ . And kind, understanding Geralt just dropped his hand and lay back down. There was nothing he could do to help. 

Jaskier felt terribly cold now. The expanse of sheets between him and Geralt felt a thousand miles- from Kaedwen to Toussaint, leaving a trail of songs and contracts along the way. Was it coming to an end? Would that mountain take everything dear from Jaskier? 

Geralt rumbled. Jaskier could hear words as they formulated in his chest, and then on his tongue. 

“Why can’t I touch you?”

“Isn’t it enough to know I don’t wish to  _ be _ touched?”

“I wish to be touched, Jask.”

And how dearly Jaskier wished  _ to _ touch. Was it more of a river, rather than a path, that resided between them? Or a craggy mountain pass, or an absent meadow, or some words that Jaskier couldn’t say. It was sort of funny- he sang so many words and yet when he truly needed them, they danced away. Would there be words enough to explain? To mend?

Jaskier laid back down. He did not brush against Geralt as he did. Where there was warmth, now their bed was so cold. So, so cold. Oh, dear god, Geralt would be the death of him. And what a terrible death it would be. Maybe he’d die upon the mountain, or maybe years later, out of grief and distress and loneliness. 

A little couldn’t hurt. It may burn, but it would not burn up. It may crack, but not shatter. Cut, but not bleed. So Jaskier lay down again. He pressed up against the curve of geralt’s body, back to chest, a hand resting gently on his arm. No more, no- no more than he would ever allow himself. 

Miles between them, all in one cold bed. 


End file.
